


Rose on Your Lips

by Chicory



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Crossdressing, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Magic Revealed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-14
Updated: 2014-12-14
Packaged: 2018-03-01 11:24:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2771240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chicory/pseuds/Chicory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin tops Arthur. In a dress.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rose on Your Lips

**Author's Note:**

> I come with fic! I'd like to say special thanks to Cerch who is kind enough to be my test-reader <3
> 
> DISCLAIMER: The usual. Also, this fic contains a non-descriptive sex scene written by a virgin. So, I don't know. Make an informed decision whether you want to read this or not. Feel free to tell me if this is horrible or good, ha ha. 
> 
> Oh yeah, and this is maybe S3 AU or something.

If Merlin was asked he'd tell anyone willing to listen that for all of Arthur's brilliance, he wasn't all that brilliant in the head.

It wasn't that Arthur was _stupid_ , per se, because a knight needed wits as well as brawn, otherwise he would make for a very soon to be dead knight. But, well, sometimes Arthur was an idiot.

But Merlin wasn't asked and so he was destined to suffer in silence. Mostly.

Maybe it started with those horrible robes and that horrible hat. Maybe Arthur had wanted a doll as a child and, having been denied one thanks to King Uther's complete unreasonableness, he'd settled on the next best thing when it presented itself.

It was just Merlin's luck that something be him.

He really should have put his foot down on the robes and the hat. But he'd been new to the job and he'd just gotten to know Arthur and, somehow, Arthur really could be quite persuasive when he wanted to be. It was just most of the time he chose to storm through any obstacle unlucky enough to fall in his way.

If it didn't fall with some violence then it usually meant that Arthur wasn't using enough of it.

But whatever it was that had given Arthur this particular fetish of dressing Merlin in stupid outfits was irrelevant to his current dilemma of being in Arthur's employment. Merlin was seriously considering he should quit. He'd had these thoughts quite often, in fact, but he couldn't quit because that would leave Arthur vulnerable and in danger.

And no matter how much of an idiot Arthur could be, Merlin still didn't want him to die.

Which was how Merlin found himself in the tavern whining.

"Arthur... wants you to wear a dress?" Gwaine repeated, pint forgotten half-way to his mouth, which was quite something since Gwaine never forgot his drinks. Then he doubled over laughing because Gwaine had never had any scruples over laughing at Merlin's expense.

In the corner, Lance looked slightly traumatised and Merlin felt a bit sorry for him. He still considered this an improvement over Lance brooding and mooning over Gwen while he pretended he wasn't.

Leon just looked uncomfortable; he wiped the foam from his beard.

"A... dress, Merlin?" Lance inquired eventually. He was a brave man, Lance, always ready to step into territories other men feared to tread for the sake of his friends.

"Yes! A bloody dress!" Merlin flailed wildly with his hands for emphasis. "It's like he's trying to make me quit! He's daring me, I can tell!"

"A dress!" Gwaine wheezed, voice muffled into the table. "The Princess wants to play dress-up with you! Maybe you should just buy him a doll, Merlin!"

"Well," Leon offered, shooting a reproving glance at Gwaine. "Prince Arthur has been in quite a bad mood lately. I'm sure he wouldn't otherwise make you do something so, er, improper." He looked a little unsure, though, like he didn't quite believe his own words.

The corner of Merlin's eye twitched guiltily.

It wasn't his fault that Arthur had found out about the magic in a most inopportune time! Merlin had been planning to tell him—soon, someday, maybe in a few more years. But yeah, definitely, it had been on the agenda.

But then those witches had attacked them while Arthur had been chasing a rabbit or whatever, and he hadn't been quite as unconscious as Merlin had thought he should be when he'd eradicated them from existence.

Perhaps Merlin was a bit overprotective at times, but it was all Arthur's bloody fault for constantly getting attacked by pretty, vengeful ladies. For a moment Merlin pondered on the terrible lifestyle choices of women.

Merlin would've made a prudent retreat into Mercia had he not dropped to his knees in exhaustion, nearly passing out himself. Then he'd panicked, babbling, "Oh God, oh God, you saw. Are you all right? Please tell me you are all right. Oh. _Oh God_. You _saw_ ," while a possibly concussed Arthur had massaged his back in circles.

" _Yes_ , I'm fine. And _yes_ , I saw. Now bloody _breathe_ , you moron."

Which coincidentally were the last words Arthur had spoken to him until the command that he put on a dress.

Merlin understood that Arthur was stressed—he was often stressed himself, he had a stressful job—and he could understand the anger; a combination of Arthur's that, incidentally, never bode well for Merlin. It still didn't mean he wanted to put on a dress. He had this horrible premonition something would go very wrong if he caved and went through with it.

Gwaine finally peeled his head from the sticky table with a look of holy epiphany. "Hey, if Merlin dolls up for the Princess he should get over his latest hissy fit, yeah?"

Dark suspicion instantly overtook Merlin's mind. Lance and Leon glanced at each other then looked at Gwaine as they nodded hesitantly.

"You know what that means, men? It means he'll stop trashing us at drills. It means days of blessed rest and nights of drinking and time for some love." At this point Merlin wished he'd sat on the other end of the bench so he could make a hasty run for it. Gwaine clapped him on the shoulder. "Merlin, my friend, take one for the team. I'm sure you'll make a lovely girl for his Highness."

Merlin stared. "Fuck off."

What Merlin evidently needed were better friends. Friends who could understand his blight of working for the most horrible man in Britain.

Well, maybe that was still Uther since Uther was the direct and indirect cause of a considerable death toll.

When Merlin eventually wobbled back to the Castle—having left Lance and Leon to deal with the aftermath of Gwaine leading the rest of the tavern into a ribald song—the person he stumbled upon behind Gaius' door was the last person he wanted to see at the moment.

Merlin froze, flailed for an escape route, and realised there were none in the dim corridor.

The warm light of a torch flickered off Arthur's hair, making it gleam like old coins. He looked over, eyebrow raised and mouth quirked up. "Merlin," he said, and his voice did funny things to Merlin, dragged over his skin and trailed shivers in its wake. "I didn't realise I was funding your penchant for cheap ale. It doesn't give a very good impression of me, does it? For the people to see my manservant make a fool of himself in local taverns."

Merlin had an objection to this, he did, something about how he didn't drink that much and Gwaine's wicked, wicked ways and how he wouldn't have ended up in the tavern in the first place if Arthur could act like a normal human being for once. Besides, Arthur thought Merlin was always making a fool of himself even if he stood still and did nothing.

But he was distracted when Arthur stood up from his lounge against the wall and walked up to him, mouth curving red and sweet, and Merlin swayed forward like a sunflower towards the sun.

"Merlin," Arthur said again, and Merlin really liked how Arthur said his name, drawling it out in delight like he _liked_ Merlin and sometimes he could almost pretend.

"Uh?" Merlin slurred, quite intelligently.

"Follow me, you useless lush." He grasped Merlin's arm, his hand warm through the shirt, and he pulled Merlin along while he floundered and scrambled to keep up.

The stairs proved to be a challenge; Arthur made impatient huffing noises while Merlin tried to get his coordination under his control, but his legs seemed to have minds of their own. Eventually he succeeded, and then Arthur dragged him up another flight of stairs, because he was a cruel prat and wanted to see Merlin suffer.

He should petition to the King, say it had been a fluke when he'd saved Arthur's sorry arse from that dagger.

It wasn't until he stood in the cool, silent room that he realised where Arthur had led him.

Fine coat of dust had dulled the dark wooden furniture, the lace cover on the bed, the book left open on the bedside table. The pearls on the brush glinted pale in the moonlight, the shadows still and blue, the curtains fluttering in a draft. The flowers on the vanity had withered, the petals fallen and curled dry.

The room had been unopened, untouched, ever since Morgana had disappeared in a maelstrom of magic and wrath, her eyes a damning gold, her sneer saying, _see, this is your blood_. Uther had forbidden anyone to enter and the floor had become near deserted, a shrine, but sometimes Gwen walked past the door, touched its surface, and held back tears.

Arthur strode for the wardrobe and yanked it open. He flicked through Morgana's dresses, tossed the ones he dismissed on the stone floor. He emerged with the red dress; the one she'd used, once upon a time, in the feast after Valiant.

"That's not going to fit me," Merlin blurted.

Arthur rolled his eyes. "It's not supposed to _fit_ you, you idiot." He held it towards Merlin, grinning like a fiend. "Put it on."

Dazedly, Merlin took it from him, the fabric slipping in his fingers. Arthur slumped down on the bed, the cloud of dust glittering silver around him. "Hurry it up, I'm not going to waste my whole night on this."

When Merlin stood there—in the middle of the room that echoed like a tomb—he abruptly realised why Arthur wanted him to do this.

Arthur had been let down by Uther, betrayed by a girl he'd loved and loved like a sister, and Merlin had lied to him, hadn't trusted him or their friendship. He hadn't trusted in Arthur's honour, for him to do right by Merlin.

Arthur hated them; the three of them, as much as he could hate the people he loved, because Arthur loved with his whole heart, and he was hurting over it, fumbling in the dark for a way to make it all right again.

This, this silly obnoxious thing, was a way for him to forgive Merlin, to keep him, without hurting him. Without seeing him burn.

"Okay," Merlin rasped, throat tight and suddenly cold sober.

He ducked behind the folding screen, listened as Arthur breathed into the quiet, to the whispers when his clothes fell to the floor. Merlin felt sorry for himself when the dress slid on easy; it was only tight on his chest and waist. He smoothed his hand down the hem, adjusted the cords around his neck.

He wondered what he looked like, hesitated to step up to the vanity from behind the screen.

"Do they know?" Arthur asked, suddenly, his voice startling Merlin.

Heart a staticky, frantic beat in his ears, Merlin stalled, more out of habit than the desire to keep lying. "Erm—who?"

Arthur knew he was stalling; a tight, unhappy quality threaded into his voice. "You know, my knights and your friends."

Merlin didn't like the way he'd worded that but it wasn't the time to ask or mention it. "Er..." He took a deep, sharp breath. He told himself he was _done_ with lying, but it was hard, too ingrained. He recalled his mom saying, her eyes serious, _you're special, my darling, but you mustn't let anyone know_. "Lance saw," he said, to his feet.

"Oh."

The word dropped flat into the silence after a moment.

"When?"

Merlin grimaced, wiped his slick hands on the dress. "D'you, um, d'you remember the griffin?"

Arthur gave a laugh, barely more than a breath, and it grated down Merlin's spine. "Well," he said, "that's explains why he left. Didn't want to take credit for what you did."

Merlin didn't know what to say, his throat clogged with useless apologies and unwanted excuses. He could give them and Arthur would take them, like he took Uther's, but they wouldn't solve anything or make things better. They would just chip away at Arthur's trust, his love, until nothing but hollowed duty remained.

With a sick, tremulous lurch in his belly, Merlin realised he didn't want that and so he let the words constrict his throat like a garland of barbs, a noose he had tied himself.

He heard Arthur shift on the bed, the scrape of his boots on the floor. "How long does it take you to change? We don't have all night. If you're worried about how you look then trust me, Merlin, I'm not expecting you to look anything short of ridiculous."

"Um, it's enough for me to just wear this? You don't want me to do anything else?" He regretted the question as soon as he'd said it; he could almost hear Arthur smirk, the sudden glee in his voice.

"Well," he drawled, "now that you mention it, you _could_ put on some makeup. For the sake of being thorough, see. There should be some in the vanity."

Merlin glanced at the vanity in horror; from the mirror he could see Arthur was sprawled on the bed, his feet still on the floor. "Please tell me you're kidding."

"I don't see what could possibly have given you that impression. When it comes to humiliating you, Merlin, I never kid."

"Right," Merlin muttered. "Just... er, I don't know how to put on makeup."

"Well, use your _magic_ ," Arthur bit out, and something painful jolted inside Merlin because it was the first time Arthur had mentioned his magic. Quickly, he shot a glimpse at the door, but it was still closed and hardly anyone was at this floor, at this time of night. "It has to be good for something, doesn't it?"

Merlin licked his lips, nervously, and tried not to think what Gaius would say about him using magic for something like this. In fact, he would rather not think about Gaius at all while he was wearing a dress. He could clearly imagine that raised eyebrow, judging him.

He padded to the vanity, sat down, and flushed when he saw how he looked in the dress; how dark it was against his pale skin.

With a deep breath, he averted his eyes.

He didn't know any spells for this, but his magic had always worked fine on instinct so he let it do what it wanted. He caught a bright flash in the mirror and, startled, he looked up. His eyes burned gold, and the drawers of the vanity opened without his touch.

Time slowed, flickered, and for an instant Merlin could almost see the spectre of Morgana overlap his reflection, pale and beautiful, sweeping powder high on her cheeks. When the downs grazed his own face, soft and light, Merlin flinched in surprise; he hadn't realised the brush had moved. His mouth parted on an exhale as his lips were painted in rose, closed his eyes when they were outlined with charcoal.

The tools settled on the vanity, and Merlin opened his eyes. For a while he couldn't help but stare at himself, his eyes back to blue but darker with kohl. A thought flicked across his mind; half-realised and gone again. His eyes darted to Arthur but he was still lying down, his voice drifting into the silence.

"Aren't you done already? I can't believe you are as slow about this as you are about everything else. Don't tell me you are getting some weird pleasure out of this because that—no, actually it wouldn't surprise me if you did. I saw you with that dress after all. You should be grateful I'm giving you this chance to live out your perversions. Not many masters would, you know."

Merlin stood up with a rustle of fabric. "Er, I'm—I'm done," he said.

Arthur swung upright, and stopped, his smirk fading. Merlin waited for him to laugh but Arthur wasn't laughing. He just stared blankly, and the prolonged silence made Merlin nervous. He fidgeted; smoothed his hands down the dress, tugged at his hair. Arthur's gaze wandered over him, and Merlin felt stupid and oddly exposed.

Finally Arthur turned his head away; he swallowed. "Well..." he said. "It—doesn't look as ridiculous as I would've thought."

He stood up with an abrupt jerk of his body. "Well then, we're done here. It's been fun, Merlin." He made for the door; Merlin moved on instinct and stopped him, held onto his wrist. The rapid beat of Arthur's heart echoed his own, in the small space between them.

"Arthur," Merlin said, teetering on the edge of something he'd never wanted to acknowledge, too caught up in lies and intertwining destinies to think of the possibility. Arthur turned his face towards him, just a slight, and his cheeks seemed to glow in the faint moonlight. "Arthur, do you—" He didn't know what he was saying, what he wanted to ask.

"Shut up and let go," Arthur said, tense.

Merlin blurted, "Do you like me like this?"

Arthur's eyes widened, just for a second, before he scowled and yanked his wrist free. "Don't be absurd, Merlin. Who in their right mind would—"

The bed gave a dull thud and glitters of dust billowed into the air when Merlin toppled Arthur into it. He made an attempt to sit up, his expression indignant and exasperated, mouth open for what would undoubtedly be a rant about useless, impertinent manservants who really ought to know better than to assault their masters.

Merlin didn't give him the time; he climbed into his lap and kissed that mouth.

For one endless second, when Arthur stilled under him, Merlin was terrified he'd made yet another mistake, that he'd imagined that brief flash of shamed desire, but then he felt Arthur's tremulous exhale against his mouth. He eased into the bed, spreading his legs for Merlin, and kissed him back. Merlin could feel his magic hum, deep inside him, skittering along his nerves as if he'd been still too long.

Whether it was in completion or in warning, he didn't know.

There was a design, weaved of golden yarn, in a tapestry of a warlock and a king, a queen and a knight, a witch and a child, the image a sketch of what had been and what had yet come to pass. The gods had created it, out of fickle dreams and whims no mortal could hope to understand, and they would not look kindly to those who defied their will.

When Merlin tilted Arthur's head and swallowed his moans, the tiny catches in his breath, he could feel the threads fray, the gold blacken to rot.

He shouldn't be doing this, but it was so hard to think, and the only thought in his mind was why he hadn't done this _before_ because Arthur was warm and willing beneath him, the air hot between the wet slide of their mouths.

Fingers clenched in Arthur's hair Merlin pulled his head back and kissed the corner of his jaw, underneath his ear, dragged his mouth down the arc of his throat to his collarbone. Merlin bit and sucked on the thin skin there, and Arthur hissed an exhale, hips bucking up.

But something niggled in the back of his mind, insistent like oil across water, and Merlin had to be sure. He pulled up, panting for cool air, felt the rapid rise and fall of Arthur's chest under his hands, the frantic flutter of his heart. Arthur looked up, eyes dark and lips bruised and hair a dishevelled halo, and all Merlin wanted was to lean back down and kiss him again. He didn't.

Merlin licked his lips, tasted Arthur and the residue of lipstick, and shivered when Arthur tracked the flick of his tongue. "Arthur," he said, "d'you really want this?"

Merlin brushed the underside of his bottom lip with his thumb as Arthur blinked then momentarily glanced away.

"I don't know," he said.

Merlin's fingers trembled, slightly, on his cheek, down his neck into the collar of his shirt. His skin was smooth, crisscrossed with hard scars. Merlin swallowed, his throat dry, and asked, "What about Gwen?"

Arthur looked tired and terribly young, and Merlin imagined he'd made the same face as a child when he'd hurried to measure up to a father who demanded more of him with each impossible feat achieved. "I don't know," he said.

All of a sudden he rocked against Merlin, a single fluid motion and the heat was too much even through their clothes, and Merlin closed his eyes and moaned, low in his throat. They fluttered open, involuntarily, when Arthur's hands slipped under the dress, couldn't stop the helpless twitches when his hands trailed up over his thighs, caressed the curve of his hipbones, rested on the small of his back.

Arthur looked up, and distantly Merlin thought how lovely the rose looked smeared on his lips, his skin. "But you want to. Don't you, Merlin?" he asked, with a ghost of a smile.

He might as well have slammed all of the air from Merlin's lungs, he thought, as his mind dissolved into mindless chaos of berates and admonishments. Of course Arthur knew, how could he have not, when everything Merlin wanted was to serve him until the day they died.

He didn't know if he could apologise, for this secret he hadn't admitted even to himself.

Arthur lay still, like he was perfectly content waiting for what Merlin would do. And with creeping clarity Merlin realised, then, what this was about. Why he would suddenly want this, after years of showing no signs of it.

This was their punishment. Degrading himself with sex with a man, his _servant_ , on Morgana's bed, in the room deemed as sacred. It didn't matter if two of the people involved never found out because Arthur would always carry the knowledge within him. And Merlin would know, this secret shared between them, but never likely repeated.

It would be his hell, knowing what Arthur felt like, tasted like, and sounded like. Knowing he'd had him once and could never have him again.

He was ashamed when the realisation did nothing to his arousal, seeped as it was with guilt and regret, because he would have liked to think of himself better than this. But the ugly truth was there was very little Merlin wouldn't do for Arthur. Even if the cost came at himself.

"Okay," he promised, shakily.

He couldn't say he was experienced; the farthest he'd gotten had been with Ella, back in Ealdor, his fingers in the wet heat between her thighs, her breathy moans trapped between their mouths.

His fingers were numb with nerves as he helped Arthur out of his shirt and he barely heard the thud of his boots on the floor when Arthur kicked them off. Merlin trailed his mouth down the rise of his chest to the fall of his belly as he pulled down his pants. In all of his years under Arthur's service he'd never undressed him; he swallowed and leaned his forehead on Arthur's hipbone, trying to catch his breath, the _smell_ of Arthur heady around him. And Merlin wanted, he just needed—Arthur's hips jerked up with a strangled groan when Merlin took him in his mouth and he nearly choked.

"Merlin," he said, breathlessly, "you don't—"

A shaky hand brushed back his hair and Merlin peered up, swatted at his hand, because he wanted to make this good for Arthur. He didn't want Arthur to have any regrets because Merlin would carry those regrets for him.

"Merlin," Arthur said, again, persistent tugs on his hair and Merlin followed those hands up to his mouth. Arthur kissed him, and kissed him, between wet gasps of air, cradling the back of his head, almost gentle.

When Merlin slid his hands up the unexpectedly soft inside of his thighs, Arthur pulled away, cheeks flushed and eyes dark, like the deep depths of a lake. He panted for a moment, then asked, " _You're_ going to—"

Merlin didn't know what else he'd expected; after all, Merlin had made a veritable career out of defying Arthur's expectations. He ran a finger over the sensitive skin, and Arthur shuddered and twitched as if to get away or to press closer. "Please," Merlin said, and he'd never said it before.

Arthur inhaled harshly, threw an arm over his eyes, and bit out, "Fine. Do whatever you want."

It was so _easy_ , like Arthur was used to it, but in the distant static of his mind Merlin thought about trust. His hands curled under Arthur's knees, the dress sticking to the sheen of sweat on his skin, pooling over his groin in red folds of silk.

"Arthur," Merlin breathed.

"Shut up, God, just shup up for once," Arthur snarled, a slight note of mortification in his voice. "I can't—"

Merlin slid another impossible inch in and Arthur panted, breaths snagging in his chest. "Arthur," said Merlin, words tangled over disjointed thoughts, "should I—d'you want me to—"

"Don't _stop_. Don't you _dare_ stop, you moron. I'm not a bloody _girl_." And Arthur arched his hips, pulled Merlin forward with legs around his waist and hands on his back until he was flush against him, the pit of his belly freefalling.

It was like dying, a rush of chills over his skin, the minute shudders of Arthur's body tingling up his spine like echoes. Merlin couldn't hold himself up and he dropped down onto his elbows, mouthed Arthur's temple and ran his fingers through the slick strands. They rocked together, awkward and clumsy, and when Arthur came his breath caught, released in a sigh.

When Merlin came, stilling deep inside Arthur, he could see the threads unravel, the gold flake off like rust.

The sky was still dark, with faint splashes of light, when Merlin woke up, later, naked and under the blankets. Arthur was sprawled beside him, sleeping, all golden shades and soft angles. After a while he stirred as if sensing Merlin's gaze. He frowned, displeased, eyes squinted.

"Stop staring. It's disgusting."

"Sorry," said Merlin, because it was easy to say when he wasn't.

"You know, a prince has the status to impose a corporal punishment on insolent manservants. I could even have you whipped."

"Didn't know you were into that," Merlin said before he could stop himself and was promptly fascinated by the faint blush on Arthur's cheeks.

"I should have known you had more perversions than one," he muttered, tugging the blanket higher over his shoulders. "Now shut up. I'm going to sleep some more."

Merlin was glad that some of the quiet resignation was gone; that he was more like himself. He didn't dare touch Arthur again, didn't dare to voice his questions, no longer shrouded in the darkness of night that made such things possible. Merlin thought about destinies while Arthur's eyes were drifting shut.

But there was something Merlin needed to say. "Arthur." Arthur blinked his eyes open, slow and heavy, the force of his glare less effective when he was pink with sleep and looked so touchable. "Arthur, you—you have to know I—"

Sorry.

Please.

Anything.

For a while Arthur just looked at him, as the words failed, too inadequate to describe how Merlin felt, what he was willing to do for him, not because he was his King but because he was Arthur; impossible, obnoxious, and utterly beautiful.

Then Arthur said, into the silence, "Will you dress up for me again, Merlin?"

And Merlin's grin was so sudden, so elated that he was hardly aware of it, just that it hurt, ached somewhere deep in his chest. "Yeah. I can, er, I can do that. I'm practised. Some would even say I'm a professional."

Arthur smiled, and the light of morning touched his hair.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading :)
> 
> (I have no idea what happened, this was supposed to be crack but somehow it dissolved into angst. Oh well.)


End file.
